


the best way we survive

by thatworldinverted



Series: games you don't wanna play [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, Episode Tag, Episode: s03e06 Motel California, F/M, M/M, Self-Destruction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:15:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatworldinverted/pseuds/thatworldinverted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They didn't make any promises, just tip-toed around an unspoken agreement. </p>
<p>Now Stiles knows better, that's all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the best way we survive

He might have figured it out on his own, eventually, but he didn’t have enough of the pieces to put them all together.

Too distracted, slit throats and Lydia’s screams and Scott’s _fucking suicide attempt_ all jostled together in his brain.

He knows there’s something Derek’s not telling them about that night, but he assumes it has more do with the fact that the entire pack left Derek for dead than anything else.

It’s not like there are any marks left after...

After.

He wants to hate her, feels it pulsing in his gut, drawing his lips up into a snarl, but really, who could say no to all that?

He couldn’t.

He _hadn’t_.

Long, long June nights as Scott wallowed in missing Allison and Isaac nursed his ridiculous crush on Scott. Just him and Derek, an endless loop of bitter coffee and useless research as they searched for Boyd and Erica.

It’s at the top of the list of things they don’t talk about, the way he knows Derek can smell it on him.

The same way they don’t talk about how, every so often, he’d wake up to find Derek’s hand in his hair.

Exactly the same way they don’t talk about the fact that he’s sixteen.

He sees it, though, when school starts and Derek goes from carefully _not-looking-too-closely_ to, equally carefully, _not-looking-at-all_.

Two weeks after their visit to the Hotel of Horror, he overhears a crack about the hickey Ms. Blake’s cover-up is definitely not handling.

Unless it’s the precursor to a Druid-induced murder, he doesn’t really give a shit.

They prod and chatter and badger information out of Deaton, eventually, and he drags Scott to the loft after Derek refuses, again, to answer his phone.

To be fair, Scott tries to convince him not to go up there, that Derek’s probably not even home, which is a pretty useless argument when the Toyota’s parked right out front.

He set the code for the security system himself, months ago, which is how he makes it up the interminable stairs and nearly to the door before he hears it.

Her.

Them.

It.

And maybe fancy enhanced hearing doesn’t catch the sound he makes as his knees wobble and he slips to the floor.

Maybe it does.

What does it say about him, that he stays, brittle-boned, iron in his mouth, on the steps, and can’t force himself to move until they’re- until _it’s_ finished?

He scrambles back down the stairs, fumbles his keys into the engine as Scott, for once, keeps his mouth shut.

He knows better than to look back.

_Knows_ it, knows that nothing good comes of it, pillars of salt and wives lost to Hades.

Does it anyway.

Can’t pull his gaze from Derek’s mouth, flushed and red as he kisses her, or Derek’s eyes, locked on his own across the expanse of the parking lot.  

He reminds himself that they didn’t make any promises.

Or at any rate, Derek didn’t.

It’s fine.

He’s fine.

Now he knows better, that’s all.

It’s not a big deal, whatever Scott seems to think.

It’s definitely not a big deal when he spends a night abusing his fake ID at _Jungle_.

Or two.

Or three.

He’s careful about it, ‘cause he’s the smart one, right? _The brains of the operation_. Calls for a ride home, crashes at Scott’s, curled up and dizzy on the floor next to Isaac.

Not worth comparing what else they have in common.

The sixth? seventh? (honestly, he’s lost count) time that it happens, Isaac’s hand closes around his wrist. Take me with you, he asks. You look like you need the company.

As if they don’t both know what company Isaac really wants.

And he lets it happen. Begs for it, really, rubs his lips behind Isaac’s ear, bares a long stretch of neck to a wet wolf mouth and _whimpers_.

Scott smiles, when he smells it on them, throws a fistbump his way in first period Algebra.

Like they’re good for each other.

Like they’re moving on.

They’re not, either of them, but who the hell cares?

The smell doesn’t last.

The string of scarlet marks Isaac leaves behind, on the other hand...

He stares at them in the mirror, digs his fingers in, bites his lip until they match, bloody red.

It becomes a habit, in between school and visits with Deaton, track practice and deciphering medieval texts with Lydia.

Sweat dripping, hips rolling, Isaac more than strong enough to take his weight as he slams them into a wall.

He walks into English one day and walks right back out.

The bite mark on the back of Ms. Blake’s neck is hard to miss.

The fact that Derek’s called a meeting for that afternoon is a coincidence.

Undoubtedly.

He tells Scott to find his own ride and drags Isaac to the Jeep after school gets out. They both know what’s happening when he pulls into an alley halfway there.

Isaac’s pants are unzipped before he even has the chance to slam it into park.

He chokes himself on it, lets Isaac fuck his throat raw. The hand in his hair tries to pull him back, at one point, but he wants it.

Needs the bitter, overwhelming taste in his mouth.

Everyone’s already there, when they finally make it to the loft. Peter stares at his mouth.

He slicks his tongue over his lips, gets them even wetter. Drags his eyes up Peter’s body and fucking smirks at the look that flashes across everyone’s faces.

Everyone except for Derek.

Derek doesn’t so much as blink.

Not at the reek of come and sweat and the ashy stench of rage.

Not at the sound of his voice, fucked-out and tangled up.

Not at Peter’s fingers as they slyly tap their way up his spine.

Derek’s more collected than they’ve ever seen him; he listens to Scott, agrees to let Allison in on their next move against the Alpha pack.

Ruffles Isaac’s hair like he didn’t throw a fucking _bottle_ at him a few weeks ago.

They eat it up.

Just can’t help rolling over for their Alpha, can they?

Puppies.

Peter, though- Peter won’t be baring his belly anytime soon, and they all know it.

Peter’s a sly snap of teeth and unexpected claws in soft, unprotected flesh.

He’s barely out the door after the meeting when his phone pings an incoming text.

No point in wondering where Peter got his number, the creeper.

He just says yes.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> All the love to my fabulous beta [1lostone](http://archiveofourown.org/users/1lostone/pseuds/1lostone) and to my own personal cheerleader [casualpahoehoe](http://casualpahoehoe.tumblr.com), who encourages me to write this things in the middle of the night. Blame them.


End file.
